


Forgotten Tales of a Lost Man

by Grim Reaper Cultist (DeletedBecauseShy)



Series: DBS’s Grim Poetry Series (Kuroshitsuji) [6]
Category: Kuroshitsuji : The Most Beautiful DEATH in the World - Iwasaki/Mori/Mari, Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Gen, Overdosing, Pre-Canon, Shinigami, Suicide, poemfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 06:33:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24346576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeletedBecauseShy/pseuds/Grim%20Reaper%20Cultist
Summary: ———He had decided his fate should come from his own hands long ago, never liking the idea of slowly waiting for the inevitable while suffering pointlessly. Change wouldn’t happen. Good people didn’t get good things in life; Rich people got good things while everyone else got their scraps.If he would leave this world, he would have to do it himself, and so, he drank. He drank until the lines of reality bent and time became nothing more than a change in scenery.———
Series: DBS’s Grim Poetry Series (Kuroshitsuji) [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1683742
Kudos: 2





	Forgotten Tales of a Lost Man

**Author's Note:**

> I did a bit of research on Eric and for some reason I was surprised to learn that it’s never actually been stated in canon that he’s Scottish. I’ve always heard him referred to as being Scottish in fanworks.

The silhouette contrasted against the moon moved like a child's shadow puppet as it slowly glided across the balcony. 

Long waves of hair tied back to expose the darker roots while swaying lightly in the breeze. His hands continued to move on their own:

Grab bottle,

Empty bottle,

Throw bottle,

Repeat. 

He had laid out on the balcony for hours. Stomach having succumbed to starvation many days ago. It has been years since his last proper meal, even the inedible became appealing when scraps covered the floor. 

His only reprise came from the dark liquid as it slowly entered his thin bloodstream. The container’s questionable origins no longer mattered. He had saved them for weeks, sorting through trash and begging any passerby that he saw from his perch near the bar. 

Occasionally food scraps came his way, buried under broken glass and soaked in unknown liquids. 

He had decided his fate should come from his own hands long ago, never liking the idea of slowly waiting for the inevitable while suffering pointlessly. Change wouldn’t happen. Good people didn’t get good things in life; Rich people got good things while everyone else got their scraps. 

If he would leave this world, he would have to do it himself, and so, he drank. He drank until the lines of reality bent and time became nothing more than a change in scenery. 

He had given up even before he began to stockpile bottles in his minuscule house. He could pinpoint the exact moment back decades ago when the struggled cries of his mother seeped through the paper-thin walls and seemed to pour into his brain. The innocent look on her face as she purposely ate the bare minimum during meals and quickly offered her own when he would finish. 

Eventually, life had come to see to her debt. The bright tones of her skin slowly blurring into a sickly yellow shade. Hair darkening, then greying, before disappearing entirely. The bright light that shone in her eyes like stars, during the darkest hours, was gone from her sky-blue eyes. Their light reflecting off her tears before the glow dimmed to nothing. 

His own blue eyes slowly began to glaze over, his mind completely lost as his senses slowly diminished until he was left alone with only the void. He had never planned to fight death, willing to let it take him from the beginning. 

His surroundings were simultaneously bright and dark. The nothingness seemed to pool around him, the lack of light erasing his shadow. He was weightless, yet falling. Breathing, but drowning. Up became down and left became right. 

He continued to float, alone, cold, and empty. The Voice started as a whisper, speaking shallow nothingness into his ears. 

It grew louder over time, never losing the strange tone. He knew it was real, the accent was unimaginable. It seemed to speak in every accent, masculine and feminine pitches overlapping entirely. 

The sound was foreign in his ears, the accent much lighter than what he had grown accustomed to out on the streets. He was quickly able to identify it as English once he really focused on it. It was around that time that he began to think about his surroundings.

Between the mysterious Voice and endless expanse of the shining void, he began to feel the creeping tendrils of illness curl around his chest until he was unable to breathe. He desperately clawed for something to hold onto, his hand eventually gripping something warm. The object held his hand gently, it's digits slowly rubbing circles on the back of his hand until he began to breathe normally once again. 

The Voice made its plea before going silent. Nothing more than ’Follow me’ before his world became silent once again. The hand that was formerly comforting him began to slowly tighten its hold before pulling him away lightly. 

He felt as though he was floating on water, the hand nothing more than a ripple guiding him deeper into the ocean. 

Eventually, his senses were once again filled with foreign sensations. On his arms, he felt fabric softer than he had ever touched, his ears picking up the same English accent as the Voice with less mystery veiling it. The faint smell of alcohol was surprisingly light as though the room hadn't been occupied before him. 

The sudden feeling of latex poking his upper arm startled him, his eyes opening quickly only to be blinded by bright white lights. The gloved hand that had touched him quickly retreated as it’s owner whispered hushed apologies. The man had light grey hair pulled back into a ponytail that swayed at the bottom of his pristine white lab-coat. 

His silhouette seemed to into the surrounding walls, the only distinction being the colours. The squeaks of glass being polished could be heard before a pair of glasses were slowly settled onto the man’s nose bringing everything into focus. 

The man spoke with a familiar English accent, recognisable from the second voice. He didn't introduce himself, opting instead to bluntly explain the situation. 

The drunkard had sinned during his life. Ending it with his own hands. In return for a second chance at the life he missed, he would serve Death until his soul was no longer impure and he could finally pass on. 

The man, lost in life, vowed to help as many as his fellow wanderers as he could during his second chance. He would eventually have the same job as the unnamed reaper, happily welcoming others and leading them to their own second chances. A guide for lost souls.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this then leave a comment and check out the other works in the series ~<3


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